It's already here . . .

So I was initially going to post just a few of these "Cry Freedom" snaps of a frog Moira caught an hour ago.

Of Sidney zeroing in for a whiff. Fortunately she didn't take a lick and fall over in a hallucinogenic heap . . .

Of Ms. Smiley . . . Ms.? Keep reading.

She was surely one of the bazillion caught earlier this week that we then let go in the tall grass. Anyone notice why this buckle-full of frog should be rated NC-17? Ms. Smiley certainly looks happier to be tasting freedom then trapped in a closet, I mean bucket.

But as I was uploading pix, the wind came up HARD and I looked behind me at this.

Blowing in from the southwest . . .

was this meaty beasty!!!

I LOVE this time of year!!! Storms are the shizzle to my chizang, though I honestly don't ever want to find myself in the shit Parkersburg, Iowa, got hit with. In fact, I think I better check on my weather guy who's partying at the epicenter. I hope Bill Paxton's there.

'Big' hangover

So last night, I traveled 75 miles one way for opening night of "Sex and the City" with one of my favorite bitches, Diane. It was a brief rendezvous, the night monopolized by the 2-hour long big screen version of this decadent guilty pleasure. There's not another person with whom I'd choose to drive so far for a flick, other than Diane, she's fabulous.

But I had to drive home after the film, the few minutes we had to chat was not nearly enough to digest it. Diane immediately raised the point that if she were Carrie (and among us Bitches, she is) she couldn't take back Big. It was so wrong and so right, at once.

To take my mind off the movie and the need to see it AGAIN, numerous times, I listened to the genius of comic David Cross. And when I got home, I continued my read of "John Adams." But when I slept, did I dream of David Cross? No. Did I dream of John Adams and the snarkiness of Jefferson? No. I dreamt of drinking tall pints of thick, black Guinness with creamy 1-inch heads. I dreamt of ruby cosmos and Big and exploding bouquets of white flowers. And I dreamt of Charlotte . . . shitting herself.

I woke up in a puddle of sweat, hungover. Diane, my fabulous Bitch, you are the devil, even in my dreams.

Father knows best?

So I'm blogging from my dad's computer at my dad's house because my dad's not here. He's chillin' at the hospital. Forget the fact he just got home from the hospital yesterday, having completed 6 weeks of radiation and chemo. He woke this morning with a swollen arm. Despite his doc's at the Mayo Clinic telling him to either come back or get to the local ER, Dad thought he'd monitor it at home (residual effects of the chemo have him wiped out). When I dropped in this afternoon, he looked pretty drained, but I'm no nurse, I gotta trust that Father knows best. Fortunately his older sister called him shortly after I left and chewed his ass. He got to the ER.

He phoned from the hospital to report he was being admitted for a blood clot . . . in the neck . . . which he'd been feeling for 5 days. FIVE DAYS!!! What is it with guys?! I can understand the desire to ignore the lumps and bumps, "it'll go away, it's just a thing," but FIVE DAYS?

So in spite of him assuring me he's fine and that I could come see him tomorrow, my husband gave me the nudge (thanks Dude!) and I went to the hospital tonight. And when I rounded the doorway into his room and saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, my cool nearly flew out every pore.

Dads are not supposed to get sick. (They're not supposed to get old, either.) And Dad and I had a rocky road up until 8 years ago. Now we're on borrowed time and I want to do all I can for him, if he'll let me. And tonight, he did! He let me gather his effects from home so he can settle in for a "nice" 4- to 5-day treatment. When I think of the years of estrangement we experienced and that today, I was entered in hospital records as his emergency contact, how can I argue that miracles are not real.

Dad and I are living proof. And while I've got all these fears about where this journey is headed and all these ghostly reminders of how my beloved grandmother wasted away and I lacked the balls to face death, one thing is for sure: I'm not bailing this time.

All will be well

After a few weeks and months of watching different blogging pals struggle with so much of what we call 'life' (myself included) I was surprised to happen upon these lovely words from Jean Shinoda Bolen in her book The Tao of Psychology: "To know how to choose a path with heart is to learn how to follow the inner beat of intuitive feeling." She continues:

"When a person is following a path with heart, his or her dreams are usually nourishing; they seem interesting and pleasant, often imparting a sense of well-being. Synchronistically, opportunities seem to open fortuitously, the people we should meet accidentally cross our path, a flow or ease accompanies our work. Each facilitating, unsought event then begins to confer a feeling of being blessed, each serving as a lantern along the way, illuminating the path with heart.

"To travel this path with heart, a person has an inner world in which the ego is filled with a spiritual abundance from its connection with the Self. There is generosity and freedom from fear within the psyche and in the world. Synchronistically, people cross our path and events unfold, facilitating rather than hindering the course we are on. The sense of fullness and flow influences the sense of time; there seems to be enough time to do whatever we are here for; even parking places synchronistically materialize."

As I fret over $140 barrel oil, burnout at work, my filthy house, whether my new hydrangeas will make it, how my daughter and father will weather their surgeries, the state of our nation, and on and on, this reading put into words what I know at the core of my being to be true. As Julian of Norwich wrote, ". . . all shall be well."

Namaste and hang in there--

Schwarzenegger was wrong

Yesterday, I spent a couple hours watching my son fish. Minus a baby bass that he threw back, these pix were the only catches. Not a bad day at the lake, I'd say. But looking at these images a day later, in light of the news of Ted Kennedy, I'm reminded of life's cycles. And I'm a little blue. Of course, in my own selfishness, I'm reminded of what my dad's going through. And given the nature of Kennedy's diagnosis, I remember when I got news that my great friend Helen had a brain tumor. Seizures like Kennedy's are what tipped off her docs. Isn't it strange how a few words can suddenly and abruptly change one's world forever. So I take solace in the world around me and count my many blessings . . .

Vroom, vroom!

There's a strong possibility I'm gonna make this baby mine!!! Anyone know a good driving instructor?

Not worthy to receive

Only a catholic would catch that phrase and possibly understand the deep-seated unworthiness that I feel, not only toward God, but Mother's Day. All in the spirit of capitalism, does Hallmark make its bid to prey on the insecurities and guilt of children and partners. Hallmark sucks!

This Mother's Day crap needs to go the way of the up-turned collar on the Izod polo. There is no spirit on this day, only pressure! Pressure to let your mother know how much you really, truly, deeply love and appreciate her. Oh, and let's not forget the pressure to be the mother who earns that really, truly, deep love and appreciation. It so blows.

And excuses to be lazy? Anyone who knows me, knows I need no excuse to loaf and drag and sleep and lounge and be a general sad sack. No matter how much I try to overcome it, I'm a sloth! Which is one of the primary reasons I hate this day. As Wayne & Garth so aptly put it back in the day, "I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy!" My kids and husband are so amazingly good to me and I just don't get it!

Maybe I'm just extra blue because my week-long eye infection is finally clearing (reason for some to celebrate, but me, to grumble it took so long), maybe it's this damn head cold that set in Wednesday and has still got me mouth breathing, maybe it's the rainy, cold, cloudy nature of today (I need me some Vitamin D . . . or a tanning bed), maybe I'm just a bitch! But I really do hate being the focus. It just reminds me of my eternal shortcomings.

Honoring MY mom, however, is a totally different thing. I simply cannot do enough to communicate to her (or you) how much I love her. And after watching both Mom and Dad lose their mom's a year ago, it's ratcheted up the need to let them know how much they mean to me. But do I really need Hallmark to force my hand? Can a card or a Willow Tree or pastry really convey all the emotions I feel for Mom? Hardly.

If only motherhood was as easy as Sally makes it look. All she does is lay around and nurse those little babies. It's so beautiful to watch how she's grown from cannibal to all-star mommy. What a giver.

An early Mutha's Day

Last night, as I'm soaking up the Philadelphia Congress of 1776, enjoying a spring evening of open windows, I heard holy hell breaking loose. Some damn cats were dukin' it out as I was trying to progress through McCullough's Pulitzer-Prize winning, "John Adams." Feeling way too lazy to check out the melee, and rather proud of myself that I'm actually interested in this behemoth, I remained between the sheets. And eventually the screeching and hissing ceased.

Soon my husband came to bed, at which point I started hearing a little peep, like a song bird was awake at 11 p.m. Odd, but small pox inoculations were taking place in Boston and I needed to see how Abigail Adams was faring. Maybe the periodic peeping was Marty's breathing? Nope, that log sawing was far from a peep. Back to the British Fleet sailing from Halifax. The peeping, though soft and infrequent, continued. Then it hit me, "Could Sally have had her babies?"

Sally is our resident Queen Bee and given she's the ripe old age of 2 gives you an indication of how long cats last at our place, and what sluts they are. This was pregnancy #3 for this hussy. Last spring was her first pregnancy and she, along with her sister, Brachiosaurie (yes, like the really tall herbivore dino), were both "heavy with child."

I'd heard cats can struggle to connect with their inner mommy so I kept my expectations low, and good thing because Brachiosaurie was the first to drop . . . and she did so out in the lawn and left 'em there. Nice. Of course, we didn't know this until I happened to glance in the window well where the cats tend to congregate and saw her chewing on a rabbit, or so I thought! Aaaaaaaaa!!!!!! She was disposing of the ugly truth. It's hard to pet her without remembering the image of little paws hanging out of her mouth. Did I just share that? Could it possibly get more macabre? Buckle up, little campers!

Sally dropped. It was the morning of Moira's kindergarten field trip and I spotted tiny, mewing rats in the window well. Marty and I leapt into action as I was determined to hold Sally accountable for her easy ways. We quickly moved Sally, mid-delivery, onto our enclosed porch. Two kitties were moved with her, only to be joined by four more. After a couple days, she looked like any normal, haggard mother, but we kept her there. And she didn't do too bad. She only ate one of 'em.

It was not an easy time. It was June 1st and the kitties were about 3 weeks old. My country gramma had died two weeks earlier and my city gramma, that morning. So after a few hours with my sisters and parents (the kids were occupied elsewhere), I arrived home to find a HEADLESS kitten laying abandoned in the middle of the porch floor! Oh My Loving God in Heaven!!! Frantically I called my brother-in-law, a large animal vet, and with his eternal calm (and sarcasm) he told me, "Hmmm. Never heard a that before. Guess she took care of that problem." WHAT? My kids piss me off plenty, but never in my life have I thought, "with a little salt . . ."

But back to last night. With the occasional peep still sounding, I could no longer take the suspense and grabbed a flashlight. And there in the window well lay a fresh litter of seven soft, mewing baby kitties. And Sally was staying with them! In fact, after I grabbed a towel and began moving the little ones into a laundry basket, Sally started growling! Maybe she's feeling 'Mommy-dom?' Third time's a charm, they say. (Oh, No. 2 pregnancy? We'll never know. She went on 'walk about' one day last fall and returned a lot thinner.) Anyway, Sally let me move her and her kids to the safety of the porch where they'll remain until we get the Kitty Clubhouse built tomorrow.

So far, she hasn't broken out the cutlery, but it looks like the little ones did. She appears to have lost an ear. . .

and the desire for sobriety. Is that scotch I smell on her breath?

Nope, not plastic

So, I was wrong when I assumed the thing hanging out Sidney's ass was a sheet of plastic. It was a chewed up pair of my underwear. Nice. I think a mental picture is sufficient.

Butt-munchin' nasty

In keeping with the gross theme, why is it that puppies are such a pain in the ass? I haven't had to deal with the 'puppy' stage in 11 years and age has not mellowed my aversion to it. I remember our beloved Tuttle, the biggest pain my backside will ever encounter. My husband and I were engaged and had just bought a house, but were living in 2 different places. The house was in my town so until my soon-to-be hubber transferred, I lived with the pup (who was a birthday/wedding gift to my husband from his brother . . . ah gee, you really shouldn't have). It was the longest couple of weeks of my life.

Tuttle was all lab, all crazy, all the time. I'd heard chocolate was lethal to dogs so I left out a plate of chocolate donuts (I know, horrible) but all it did was give her a sugar rush! Couple this with her discovery of a box of PowerBars and she was flippin' INSANE! And chew? She chewed off the bottom corner of our stairway, she chewed off the corner of my husband's grandmother's cedar chest, she took out shoes and table legs and anything she could latch her jaw onto. In spite of this, Tuttle had a very redeeming sweet nature and she was also pretty decent with her bowels. She apparently just chewed, she didn't swallow.

Enter Sidney. Sidney is the 6-month-old beagle we acquired after Tuttle went to that big yard in the sky back in January due to a spinal injury of which I had nothing to do. Sidney came to us all scared and sweet and tiny, about 8 weeks old, and just so yummy! She'd nap on your neck and was so short she couldn't climb the stairs. And she'd have her accidents, but her cuteness and guilt always trumped the poop. Until yesterday. . .

I was upstairs resting my bleary, infected eye ball while Sidney raced around the house, super excited everyone was home from work and school. My son was watching Scooby Doo while Moira was playing her organ. Sidney was teasing the cats relentlessly so I got up to put her outside only to find a little poop on the stairs, and another little poop by the coat closet (somebody shit on the coats!), and another little poop in front of the basement door, and another little poop in the dining room, and another little poop in the office, and another little poop rubbed into the carpet in the living room . . . FUCK!!!

I turned around to look for the shit demon and found her sniffing her crotch and then dragging ass across the floor with what looked like a sheet of plastic hanging out of it!!! FUCKITY FUCK!!! Unlike Tuttle, who ate organic matter, Sidney will eat anything she chooses, which is why we had to set the litter box a little higher. (To be honest, finding that little beagle butt backing out of the litter box hole with a . . . um 'tootsie roll' disappearing in her mouth is probably the nastiest thing I've ever seen.) Anyway, Sidney had apparently chosen to eat something that was non-organic, and relatively long and in one piece and, obviously, not fully digested. The partially digested part was hanging out her ass!

A wee bit of me felt sorry for her, but the spitting-mad part shoved her outside and set to cleaning. Is there anything worse than canine feces in yo' crib? I feel so violated.